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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795585">But I Exist to Serve the Master</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/antimonyandthyme/pseuds/antimonyandthyme'>antimonyandthyme</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Gentlemen (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:28:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>874</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795585</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/antimonyandthyme/pseuds/antimonyandthyme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey must have known that he hates hospitals—the smell, the lights, the narrow corridors—hates them enough to set him off, and had arranged for him to wake up in the comfort of his own home. Raymond doesn’t know what to do with such consideration.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mickey Pearson/Raymond Smith</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>360</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>But I Exist to Serve the Master</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a low hum in his ears. The ache in his right leg is an ugly, unknown thing. But when he finally brings himself to crack his eyes open, it’s not to the white, starchy walls of the hospital, but the familiar mauve accents of his own room. He’s home then, somehow. </p><p>“What,” he manages to croak out, bewildered, the medical-induced haze clouding his awareness. The last thing he remembers: a grim, dark warehouse, and the stake through his leg, courtesy of Aslan Senior’s henchmen. Pain had been such an unfamiliar notion as of late, he hadn’t known what to do but scream. Fletcher was right. He’s grown soft.  </p><p>There’s movement to his right, and he jerks away instinctively, letting out a soft groan when the wound in his leg pulls. “Stop that,” a voice commands, severe but gentle. Hands come to rest lightly on his chest, keeping him down. “Easy, Raymond. You’re alright.”</p><p>He blinks up at Mickey’s face, the pinch set between his brows, the taut line of his jaw. Raymond wants to hide, shift away from the unrelenting eyes. He’s seen Mickey turn that onto buyers and business partners alike, and watched as the men crumbled from the intensity of his gaze. Now, on the receiving end, disapproval cuts through the Lidocaine like a knife. “Boss,” he says wearily, then wonders what to follow up with. How could he have been so careless, how did he get himself captured, how did everything go to shit. </p><p>“How’re you feeling,” Mickey says instead, interrupting his half-formed thought processes. </p><p>“Fine,” he grits out, because he wants to move pass the niceties, get it all over and done with so that he can close his eyes again and forget about the stinging shame of failure for awhile. </p><p>Mickey frowns, before turning away. “Doc,” he calls into the hallway. Mickey’s personal doctor materializes at the side of the bed and begins to look him over. Raymond answers his series of questions tersely, shrugs when the doctor enquires after an indicator of pain between one to ten, mumbles out a grudging <i>six</i> when Mickey raises an eyebrow, demanding the question to be answered. </p><p>The doctor leaves after pronouncing him stable. “Six,” Mickey says flatly. “You had a stake driven through your leg, and you’re at a six.”</p><p>“You’ve got me on the good stuff, Boss,” he says uncertainly, “m’fine.” It’s mostly true, Raymond’s distantly cognizant of the fact that he’s on a cocktail of painkillers powerful enough to numb the sensation in his leg to a throb. Mickey hadn’t skimped on the follow up care either; the bed’s surrounded by monitors and equipment, enough to crowd his usually spacious room. Mickey must have known that he hates hospitals—the smell, the lights, the narrow corridors—hates them enough to set him off, and had arranged for him to wake up in the comfort of his own home. Raymond doesn’t know what to do with such consideration. </p><p>He falls back to old habits, digs for more information so he can plan his next move. “Aslan’s people?”</p><p>“Dead,” Mickey waves a hand dismissively. “You don’t have to worry about them,” but there’s a tightness in his tone that Raymond can discern, only because he’s spent two decades in Mickey’s service. He realizes: Mickey’s angry. Overwhelmingly so, but he’s hiding it well. Raymond feels sick. He’s never been able to stomach Mickey’s disappointment. </p><p>“I’m sorry for the trouble,” is all he can say. </p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, Raymond sees Mickey startle. “You’re sorry,” Mickey repeats slowly, as if Raymond had said something particularly stupid. </p><p>“Yes,” he says tightly, trying to ignore the flush making its way to his cheeks. “I was careless. Rookie mistake.”</p><p>Mickey’s silent for so long Raymond thinks he’s done with the conversation. Just as well, there’s work to be done now. The clean-up for this incident will be extensive, he knows, and there’s a decision to be made regarding Aslan Senior: a call for ceasefire, or a show of brutality as a prelude to war. Stake or no through his leg, Raymond hopes for the former. He’s tired of this uncontrollable mess. </p><p>“How would you like to proceed against Aslan?” He can redeem himself by doing this right. With his injury, he might not be able go out-field, but he can detail the plan, make it so airtight there will be no chance of failure. </p><p>Mickey considers his question. He gets up, leans over, and frames a calloused hand around Raymond’s face. He’s close enough, surely, to hear Raymond’s heartbeat. “I call you my right-hand,” he says, low and intent. “My flesh and blood. And anyone who touches what’s mine I will <i>burn</i>.”</p><p>Raymond closes his eyes. It’s war then.</p><p>Mickey strokes a thumb across his eyebrow, once. And then he pulls away, leaving Raymond feeling oddly bereft. “You’ll have physical therapy scheduled in the coming week.”</p><p>“Understood.”</p><p>“I want you back by my side as soon as you’re able,” Mickey says, buttoning his suit up as he turns to leave. Raymond counts the creases in his jacket; how long had Mickey sat by him while he slept? Some things are better left unanswered. </p><p>“Sir,” he says instead. There’s work to be done.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Help. Am I the only one in this black hole?</p></blockquote></div></div>
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